Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Man of the Cloth

But of course! When a simple wooden boat is moored near the jetty, the tide must drive it against the stones, particularly if its crew is bent upon the destruction of one in their midst, rather than the preservation of their vessel. And so the dinghy's prow had scraped against the Cobb, and left its telltale mark. A dark green, a very bottle green, and common enough in its way among the fishing boats of Lyme. I should be unlikely to discover the Reverend's vessel — if the murderer was the Reverend — from such a signature. But the smear of green remained a grim reminder of the night's vile work, all the same; and one I should hold close in memory.

THE IMAGE OF THE BOBBING GREEN BOAT, rrs MUFFLED OARS AND menacing figures outlined against the darker night sky, persisted in my waking thoughts the remainder of the morning. As I sat at the little Pembroke table in the Wings cottage sitting-room, attempting to write, I was so often forced to draw a line through my words, that I became quite vexed and threw down my pen.

“The story does not come to your liking, Jane?” Cassandra enquired gently. She was reclining upon the settee, with a view of the street beyond our gate, and the two of us quite filled the tiny room. My father and mother had gone to stroll up the hill, in search of Henry, whom we hoped should accompany us to Mr. Crawford's fossil site. I had taken out my small sheets of writing paper, folded in half in preparation for composing [28] If one can judge by the appearance of Austen's extant manuscripts — Sanditon, for example — she made a habit of writing on small sheets of folded paper, which could be readily hidden if a visitor intruded upon her privacy. These sheets were then assembled in book form, and the pages hand-sewn through at the fold. It would appear she is speaking here of her unfinished work, The Watsons, which Austen scholars believe she began sometime in 1804. The manuscript paper bears an 1803 watermark. — Editors note. , and begun to work at Emma Watson, while Cassandra trimmed her hat.

“I am not in congenial company, Cassandra — and so the conversation comes with difficulty. I have just got Emma home to her father's house, and into a pony cart on the way to a ball; and as she is quite low in spirits, I find myself in a similar state. It is not a condition conducive to composition, I fear.”

‘On her way to a ball — and in low spirits?” my sister rejoined with some amusement. “Then she cannot have sprung from your pen. An impostor has had the writing of it, Jane, while you danced the night away in the Lyme Assembly. For I know your portraits of young ladies are always drawn from life. Elizabeth Bennet should never be so low, when faced with the prospect of a ball.”

“But then Lizzy is blessed with resources not commonly granted to frivolous beauties,” I rejoined. “She is almost as clever as myself. Emma Watson's portion must and shall be different. She cannot be Elizabeth Bennet; it is impossible that two such should fall from my pen — but neither is she an empty-headed girl, unformed and filled with nonsense. She is a sober young woman, tried by the perversities of those she holds most dear, and faced with the prospect of a future all unprovided-ior.”

“She does not sound very droll,” Cassandra observed. “She sounds unfortunately like ourselves. I fear she shall disappoint.”

“Then disappoint she must!” I cried. “For I cannot always be writing of Fortune's darlings — those dowerless chits whose beauty and understanding conquer the most mercenary of fellows. No, Cassandra, in Emma Watson I w ill have the truth of a penniless woman's prospects.”

“Then she is not to marry? I thought her destined for Lord Osborne.”

“Lord Osborne!”

“But I forget. Even you, dedicated to truth, would not have a woman marry a man she did not love, merely to ensure her future.” My sister's gaze was too indulgent; and I knew her to be laughing at me.

“Very well — Emma will marry — but do not laugh, Cassandra, I beg of you!” I protested, as she threw back her head in delight. “One cannot end a novel without marriages all around. Emma shall marry, though never Lord Osborne. For, you know, we must marry.”

“Do you speak of ourselves, Jane,” Cassandra enquired, sobered at once, “or merely of the plight of women in general? I do agree that it appears the only role of dignity accorded to us — the sole method of securing fortune, position, and respectability in society — but I cannot say that merely this is enough to recommend the state.”

“For you, dear Cassandra — never.” That I thought of poor Tom Fowle, dead these seven years, and with him all my sister's affections and hopes, I need not underline. [29] Cassandra was engaged in 1795 to marry the Reverend Thomas Craven Fowle, son of the Austens lifelong friends, and a protege of Lord Craven, whose naval expedition to the West Indies Fowle felt obligated to join that same year. He died of yellow fever in San Domingo in February 1797, aged 29. He left Cassandra a legacy of one thousand pounds. She never married. — Editor's note. From her expression, I knew her overcome by a similar sensibility. “And for myself — I could do very well single. A little company, and a pleasant ball now and then, would be enough for me.”

“If one could be young forever,” Cassandra said quietly. “I might have married, had I never lost Tom Fowle — but then, very few people marry their first attachments.”

“Better to stay unmarried than to marry for anything but attachment, Cassandra. You cannot believe otherwise; I am sure you cannot.”

“But you know, Jane — you know better than anyone— that it is very bad to grow old, and be poor, and laughed at. And my father will hardly support us forever.” [30] This conversation with Cassandra regarding marriage must have impressed Jane, because it eventually found its way, in amended form, into The Watsons manuscript. — Editors note.

“Well!” I cried, “let us make the most of our time, while he still does! We are in Lyme, Cassandra; we are young; we might yet simper at Mr. Milsop as he measures out some lace, or glance sidelong under our parasols at an idle fool of a fellow on every street corner. There remain to us yet your blushing surgeon, Mr. Dagliesh, and the lame Captain Fielding. Let us exert ourselves, though summer wanes, and try what Fortune offers!”

I had no sooner voiced this battle cry, than the very gendemen mentioned were shown in by the housemaid Jenny, her heart-shaped face and glad blue eyes all wonderment at the surprise of it. A morning visit — and the very morning after the ball! [31] Only intimates of the family were accustomed to visit before noon, while acquaintances usually paid calls before dinner. — Editors note. This was singular behaviour indeed. But perhaps, I thought, as I thrust my writing paper under a book, kept upon the Pembroke table for just such a purpose, not so very singular for Lyme. The common ways of society are not to be expected in a town whose general air is so easy.

“Mr. Dagliesh,” I said, rising in greeting, “Captain Fielding. I have the honour to present my sister to you, Captain. Miss Cassandra Austen.”

Fielding bowed his fair head, and smiled his warm smile, and was so exacdy as my description had led Cassandra to expect, that she met him with tolerable composure. Mr. Dagliesh, however, was in a pitiable state — now waxing red, now waning white, as his eyes sought any resting place but my sister's face. His discomposure, and some hint of its cause, reduced Cassandra to a confused silence; and that he might mistake her air for one of disdain, was all the more probable.